Reading for this morn

I've decided that I'm going to start posting some of my tarot readings on this here crazy blog thing. This morning my Rider WAite deck gave me this reading:

King of Pentacles

Page of Cups sig by:q.ofpent
8of wands 3of wands cb:page of pen. 5ofwands ten of cups

2 of wands
Queen of Cups

2of pentcles


For those of you adept to Tarot, you will recognize that this is the Celtic Cross spread.
This gives me insight into my current situations and what kind of energy I might expect to encounter in the near future.

It's just a heart attack

I'm not sure why I thought that this time around you would open your door and give me any inclination as to what the key even looked like. Your post-modern stance on needs and wants and my fruiting enlightenment that mimicked your past choices were just symmetrical standards that are based on fractals. I shared the most detailed importance into how and why and when and who, all of the parts that make up the whole. As soon as my belly hairs were shown, my compromised eyes that stare like my grandmothers scared you. I do understand this time. My failure to filter will not happen again, my trust will not be placed on its back to be burned in indecision. My silence will never save me.

Ode to a heart that's out of water

Beneath the sheets
I found out why you
push the static downfall
away from your thighs
that used to feel like stars
clinging to your heart.

I listened patiently til
my heart scraped ions
lost their charge.
This was a simultaneous
account where your history
caught you in a sling
causing you to feel visions
on loneliness, pain and heartache.

I will always question
the opinions of those who are
just soo sure of the cause and
effect. I'd like to affect you
in a perpetual escapade that
would cause your heart to
flutter every time your eyes
casually glance at me.

My songs do not cause
an emotional response
to your lingering permissive
stance, your judgemental
truths that set your feet in
concrete, leaving your fingers
pointing instead of in an
unclasped position of the hand.

I have given more than
I thought I had in my
checking and savings.
I borrowed from the past,
saying that it would be
worth more than pocket
change in our future.
I believed this.

I'd like to remember the good.
I want to cry when I think
that I may have given
the best songs to you
with the most complicated,
expressive chord structures
and you have had head phones
on this whole time.

I am scared of losing
this present state of safety.
I am afraid that stability
in its most banal sense of
security will fall away
like the floor on a spinning
carnival ride.

There is an intelligent spiral
urging me to be patient
and bold in one motion.
There has been arguable temptation
but I am larger than the eyes
that peer out from the basement steps.

With every direct communicative
pattern of the last month
we have inadvertently taken
strides forward. Your eyes still
tear me and paste me and mold my
infrastructure but I find myself
collaged in pieces that abstain
my needs from seeing the sun.

If everything that happens
happens because their is some divine
plan, then make it easier to say
yes to myself.

In my back pocket there's a wax seal

Humans think that just because a cogniscent ray
of volition scattered on an African savanna
that we are barred from the cycles
that all other creatures follow in nature.

I beg to differ. I find myself twisting
and doing the log roll in my
pool of thoughts, emotions and actions.

My surroundings may change and my hope
may grow. I might find myself on a
sail boat where I have an epiphany
because the rocking rythm of the boat
lulled me into an alpha wave meditation
induced by the oceans menstrual motion,
entitling me to a sense of safety.

I am a part of these cycles no matter
how hard I try to negate and position
myself to see the fruits and look for the
differences in my similarities with you.

I vividly recall the way
your eyes penetrated mine as I strolled
effortlessly through the ceiling to
floor glass door.
You took your time to approach me,
casually finding a reason to smoke
and dip in to my conversation.
By the end of the evening,
the pyre was lit but the candles
were out. Fear and excitement boxed
us in to a lid that quickly
extinguished potentials and
spilled wax on my doubtful ego.

I moved on with the pain as I usually do.
This is a cycle that changes
the color of my bruises from red
to purple, to yellow then blue.
Roy G Biv is a good friend of mine.